Limbo
by jamespotterdidntstrut
Summary: James just after his death. Written for my Creative Writing class.


Limbo

He waits.

Cold, hard, unyielding floor against his back that should hurt but somehow doesn't, brilliant white light burning his eyes even with them tightly shut as he looks up. It _should _hurt, but it doesn't. He ignores the fact.

He waits.

Seconds fly by in hours, the time is not the same here; it is one minute and then it's an hour and after that it has only been a fleeting moment of time. It all passes so irregularly and he senses this as he lies there on the ground, some feeling deep inside his conscious that he should be getting up, that he should be searching for something, but what?

He waits.

He waits for the realization to hit him, which it does, and hurts him in a way that is deeper than the pain falling onto that cold, unfamiliar floor – is it even a floor? - should have. It hurts worse than breaking a bone or that look his parents would sometimes give him of "We're disappointed," even if such glances were far and few between. It hurts like a heartbreak, only that is such an insignificant word to describe the feeling, because it is worse than the insignificant shattering of a strong heart, it is the feeling of his soul recognizing the utter absence of its mate and he's certain it nearly tears him apart.

He waits.

He has decided that he now knows exactly what it is that he is waiting for, and such conflicting feelings rush through his mind. If she appears, he has failed them. If she doesn't, he will feel this pain forever. He isn't a selfish man, in fact he is just the opposite, having just given up his life to save another, but the feeling cannot be helped. For one selfish moment, he just wants to see her walk up to him, wrap her arms around him. He wants to smell the scent of her shampoo against his nose and look at her pale face. He wants to touch her skin and know that she's real, that she's really his. He wants to stop his soul from hurting. He wants all of those things more than anything in the world, or, more accurately, anything in wherever the hell he is now.

Contrariwise, another pain tugs at his mind and screams at him for even thinking such a stream of terribly selfish thoughts. If she is here, the place he suddenly realizes is a place of death, then she is not there. And if she is not there, then he has failed her. He has failed them all.

He sits up, finally opening his eyes to the whiteness, and finds that it is much less bright with his eyes _open_, strange as that may be. There is nothing to see, however, just whiteness all around. The bleakest place he has ever been a witness to and the most beautiful all at the same time.

Scratch that, he could think of one thing more beautiful. He doesn't want to think of her though, afraid suddenly that thinking of her will only will her there.

He waits.

Standing on wobbly legs, much like the first step of a small deer, he begins to wonder around, getting nowhere and everywhere all at once. This way and that way, white nothingness all around, but why is it so breathtaking?

Breathtaking. He hasn't been breathing. Now painfully aware of the fact, he tries to suck in a deep breath only to find that the notion feels both strange and unwelcomed. His lungs are almost raw, although the feeling lessens with each forced breath until finally his body feels at least a bit of normalcy in this strange place.

He waits.

He would wait here forever for her, he is positive of it. Although he cannot see an exit, he knows that if he wanted to leave this place that he easily could; he also knows that he would never leave without her, even if it meant lying on a hard floor in the most uneventful of all the places he has known for years and years. He hopes it _is_ years, he hopes it's decades even. He hopes she appears right this very second before his eyes. Then he hates himself for the thought.

He waits.

Suddenly, the notion seems so ridiculous, funny even although the situation is anything but. He's waiting for her, but how is that any different from the rest of his life? He's always been waiting for her one way or another.

A light, somewhat easy chuckle forces its way from his mouth and fills the whiteness with something pure and beautiful, the first sound he thinks he has ever heard in there. He laughs again, with more sadness this time, and stops his wandering.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he stares off into the distance – not that there is anything to see – and he waits. The pain stops though, that pain in his soul, and he is both elated and panicking at the same moment. There are too many things that it could mean, and suddenly each seems just as terrifying as the next.

She doesn't walk towards him from the distance; there is no running and hugging and sobbing with reunited joy. In fact, he doesn't even look over to see her with his own eyes as she appears beside him. He doesn't have to.

As her hand slides delicately around his arm, the easing of the pain in his soul is confirmation enough to both her presence and her fears. She emits a sniffle from beside him, a new pain growing in his chest with the sound, and he removes his hand from his pocket, instead entwining it with hers.

Together they go on.

And they wait.


End file.
